WHEN TERM STARTED, Steve and Miranda walked to and from school together, discussing many things, for, as Miranda told herself, she had no secrets from Steve. Naturally enough they talked a good deal about ways of contacting Julian and Gerald, and wondered how Missie was getting on. They guessed that she would have been out foraging each night, for now she had to feed not only herself but also Timmy, and though Miranda thought that this was rather hard on the old woman Steve disagreed. ‘Having something to look after – or perhaps I should say somebody – is just about as good as being looked after yourself,’ he told his friend. ‘You mark my words, young Miranda, Missie will see that Timmy gets the best of everything, which means that she’ll eat better herself as a result.’
‘I don’t see that,’ Miranda objected. ‘Dogs can eat raw fish, dirty old bones, scraps of food a person wouldn’t look at twice.’ She giggled. ‘I can just picture Missie lying under the stone bench in the garden sharing a dirty great marrow bone with our little dog.’
Steve laughed too. ‘Ah well, you may be right,’ he conceded. ‘By the way, I reckon the Browncoats have probably started classes again by now. The bus fare won’t be more than a couple of bob and we’ve both got savings stashed away at Jamaica House, so I think we ought to go up to Crosby this coming Saturday. Have you any plans? If your aunt wants messages you’ll have to slip out and let your cousin Beth do some work for once.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Where is she, incidentally? I’ve not seen her around since term started, come to think.’
Miranda grinned. ‘Two reasons. One is that she’s actually got herself a job! It’s a big house on the outskirts of Speke and Beth has to be there quite early in the morning. She’s a great one for her bed, which makes me wonder how long she’ll stick it. She has to take a tray of early morning tea up to the old lady and help her to dress, and then she has to clean the house, cook some sort of meal at midday and take the old lady out in her wheelchair anywhere she wants to go.’
Steve whistled under his breath. ‘What’s the money like?’ he enquired with his usual practicality. ‘And how the devil did she get such a job? I’ve heard my mam talking about girls going into service, but usually it’s live-in.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, though it’s rather complicated,’ Miranda said. ‘Aunt Vi’s pal, Flo, worked for old Mrs Seymour for years and she always did it as a day job because when she started the old lady’s two sons still lived with her. Ned and Barry Seymour took it in turns to bring Flo to their mother’s house, though she had to make her own way home. Then the boys married and moved out, and Flo discovered the sort of money that she could earn at one of the new factories making uniforms and that for the forces. She’s a marvel with a sewing machine, is Flo. She knew her job at the big house was an easy one, knew that the moment she said she was quitting there’d be a queue of applicants a mile long, so the day she gave in her notice she took Beth with her and recommended her for the job, suggesting that Beth should work there on a month’s trial. The old lady was only too pleased to take Beth on since Flo had given her a good character, so that’s how it happened. The only difference is that she makes her own way to and from the village; when Flo started working there there were no early buses, but there are now. And guess what . . .’ Miranda giggled. ‘The other reason you haven’t seen her is that she’s got a boyfriend. Met him on the bus going to her new job, and discovered that he was employed a couple of days a week to help in the garden. It’s huge, and very well kept, Beth says. And he asked her to go to the flicks with him one evening after work, and bob’s your uncle.’
Steve stared, then pretended to faint. ‘What sort of feller would go for a great lumpin’ girl like Beth?’ he demanded.
Miranda chuckled. ‘Now she’s got a boyfriend Beth washes her hair once a week, same as everyone else, and means to spend her wages on nice clothes and make-up.’ She sighed. ‘I wonder what it’s like to have a boyfriend? I wouldn’t go wasting the ready on make-up or frocks, though. I’d buy cakes and ice cream and pork pies and sausage rolls . . .’
By this time they were nearing their school and Steve gave her a friendly punch in the ribs. ‘You have got a boyfriend. What d’you think I am?’ he asked plaintively. ‘Don’t I walk you to school, take you to the Saturday rush at the Derby cinema, mug you to a sticky bun when I’m in the money . . .’
Miranda gave a scornful snort. ‘Huh, you’re my pal – my bezzie if you like – but you ain’t my boyfriend. And Beth’s feller is Spotty Wade; you must know him. When we were in primary they called him Tadpole because he had such a big head for such a little body, but now he’s just fat and spotty.’
‘Well, you are my girlfriend . . .’ Steve was beginning when the school bell sounded. ‘Cripes. Let’s gerra move on, chuck, ’cos it’ll look bad on my report if I’m late,’ he said, breaking into a run as he spoke. ‘Is it agreed then? That we go up to Crosby this Saturday – day after tomorrer – and see whether we can still remember what them two boys look like?’
‘Are you certain the Browncoats are back, though?’ Miranda said a trifle breathlessly, running along in Steve’s wake. ‘We’ll look awful fools if we get up there and find the school’s still closed – or worse, that the boys are kept on the premises even at weekends.’ By now they had reached the school gates and Steve paused in his onward rush to shake his head reprovingly at Miranda.
‘What a one you are for raising objections and followin’ the rules,’ he said airily. ‘I reckon the lad weren’t born who couldn’t escape from a school if he wanted to. And anyhow I’ve been to Crosby several weekends during term time and it always seems to me that the pavements are thronged with them boys. Still, I reckon we’d best gerroff early, so your aunt can’t tie you to the kitchen sink, ’cos that would ruin our chances.’
Neither Aunt Vi nor Beth worked on a Saturday so the alarm was not set. However, Miranda was rudely awakened soon after seven o’clock by her cousin briskly pulling the covers off her sleeping form to the accompaniment of a shouted ‘Gerrup, you lazy little slut!’ which had Aunt Vi mumbling a protest.
Miranda was about to add her own objection to such treatment when she remembered that Beth was not the only one who wanted to be up betimes, so she rolled out of bed with no more than a mumbled protest, grabbed her clothes off the hook by the window and made for the kitchen. She then realised why Beth had woken her so crossly; whoever had been last to bed the previous night had failed to make up and damp down the fire in the range, with the result that it was almost out and one could not possibly boil a kettle, let alone make the porridge, until it was brought back to life once again.
From upstairs, Beth’s voice reached her. ‘Bring me hot water up as soon as you’ve got the fire going,’ she shouted. Miranda heard their bedroom door crash open and saw Beth’s round, pasty face appear at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m meetin’ Herbert early, so’s we can have a day out.’ She gave Miranda an ingratiating smile. ‘Sorry I had to wake you kinda rough like, but I can’t abide washin’ in cold water and I want to look me best for Herbert. Yesterday I seen a dress in Paddy’s Market what was only twelve ’n’ six; it suited me a treat, so I bought it. Herbie’s callin’ at eight, so if you could just make me some sarnies I’ll get meself washed and dressed while you’re doin’ it.’
‘Okay, Beth. As it happens I’m goin’ out myself so I’ll put up a few sarnies for me as well,’ Miranda said, pulling the kettle over the now briskly burning range.
Miranda enjoyed the bus ride out to Crosby, for though she knew the early part of the journey, the rest was strange to her. Steve chatted easily as they went, and told her that if they had time they might go down to Crosby beach and paddle in the long seawater pools which formed whenever the tide went out. He seemed confident that they would soon achieve their objective, which at this stage was just to identify the two Grimshaw boys. ‘If we have a chance we’ll suggest that they meet us another time to discuss Missie’s plight,’ he explained. ‘But I don’t think we should rush them, because they’re bound to be suspicious of two total strangers trying to get them away from their schoolfellows.’
When the bus drew up in the middle of the small town, Steve and Miranda hopped off and turned towards the street where the school was situated, looking for brown blazers trimmed with gold braid with a very imposing crest upon the breast pocket. They saw boys large and small, boys fat and thin, boys who wore their caps tilted rakishly on the backs of their heads and boys who pulled them so far forward that they had to raise their chins to look before them. In fact after five minutes Miranda grabbed Steve’s arm and pulled him into a convenient doorway. ‘We’re never going to find them, not if we search for a hundred years,’ she hissed. ‘There are hundreds of them and they all look exactly alike. Oh, if only Missie would come with us, finding them would be so simple. She could point them out and then go and hide herself somewhere . . .’
‘Yes, but you know very well she won’t come out in daylight, let alone travel on a bus which goes perilously close to the docks at times. And, you know, I don’t altogether blame her. She had a real horrible experience with them men on the Pride of the Sea; it’s only natural that she don’t want to walk into trouble again,’ Steve said.
‘If only there were some sign that we could look for,’ Miranda moaned. ‘If one of them had a wooden leg or an eye missing . . .’
Steve laughed and gave her a friendly shove. ‘Don’t give up so soon, Miranda,’ he urged. ‘What do you remember about the pictures of the lads which Missie put into our heads? I’m sure Julian’s hair was light brown and I think he had a scar above one eyebrow, and didn’t you say Gerald had curls?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Miranda wailed. She had been thrown completely off balance by the fact that, in uniform, all the boys looked so similar. ‘All I really remember is the colour of his shirt, and . . . oh!’
A small group of boys was approaching them, the tallest two in earnest conversation which stopped abruptly as Miranda grabbed one of the boys’ arm. ‘Are you Gerald Grimshaw?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘I’ve a message for you from an old friend.’ The other boys were staring at her curiously – one or two sniggered – and she felt a hot blush burning up her face, but continued to cling doggedly to her target’s arm. ‘You are Gerald Grimshaw, aren’t you? It’s – it’s a private sort of message . . .’
But the boy was shaking her off and frowning, his cheeks also beginning to burn. ‘I don’t think I know you, young woman,’ he said coldly. ‘Good day.’
Miranda, feeling the most almighty fool, fished the sheet of paper upon which Missie had written her message out of her pocket and tried to thrust it into the boy’s hand, but he evaded her. She thought that he had cold eyes and a superior expression and wished very much that she had asked Steve to speak to him. Then she remembered that of course he had not seen the same image as she, and fixed the cold-eyed one with her most pleading expression. ‘I’m sure you are Gerald Grimshaw, aren’t you? This letter is most awfully important; I promised the – the writer that I would hand it to you personally. Oh, please, please read it!’
The boy, however, clapped his hand firmly over his breast pocket so that she could not insert the letter. ‘I’m not Gerald whatsit,’ he said, and then snatched the paper from her, screwed it into a little ball, and dropped it down the grating at his feet. ‘We aren’t allowed to talk to girls, especially ginger-headed gypsies,’ he said nastily. ‘Please go away; if I were seen talking to you I should be in real trouble.’
Miranda, her whole face burning by now, dropped to her knees and peered through the grating, but the note had disappeared. Scrambling to her feet, she fired one parting shot. ‘You’re a nasty stuck-up snob!’ she said furiously. ‘I was only asking you to read a letter from someone you’re supposed to be fond of. When I tell Missie how horrible you’ve been she’ll be disgusted.’
If she had expected the boy to show some sign of interest when she spoke the name she was disappointed. He simply continued to walk, speeding up slightly, and when he had got well ahead poor Miranda gave vent to her pent-up feelings in a burst of angry tears. She turned back to where she had left Steve, but could not see him anywhere and for a moment sheer terror gripped her. Steve had provided the money for the bus fares and had the two return tickets in his pocket. To be sure, she had a packet of jam sandwiches in her own pocket, but she could scarcely use them to bribe a bus conductor to take her home. And she had played her cards all wrong! She should never have tried to engage Gerald – if indeed the boy had been Gerald – in conversation whilst he was with a group of his schoolmates. Now she had spoiled the whole thing and they would have to return to Jamaica House this evening with only failure to report. Of course, it was Missie’s own fault for refusing to accompany them, but Miranda understood how she felt, particularly now she had been so comprehensively snubbed. But perhaps if they told Missie what had happened she would pluck up her courage and accompany them to Crosby on their next visit.
But right now Miranda had a problem of her own, and she was about to start searching for Steve when she saw him strolling along the pavement towards her, a broad grin on his face. ‘You got lucky, didn’t you?’ he asked as they met. ‘I saw you talking to that boy – was it Gerald? Apparently they’re on their way to the school playing fields, so they’ve got teachers with ’em, keepin’ an eye; I guess you didn’t have time to explain much. Shall we follow ’em up to the playin’ fields and wait until Gerald’s had time to read the letter? I thought I saw you put it in his pocket. Hey up, what’s the matter? Don’t start cryin’, you idiot! What have I said? You done well. I didn’t see anyone who looked like Julian.’ He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Look, there’s a seat by that monument. If you don’t want to follow them now, then we might as well have a sit down while you tell me what’s upset you.’
Miranda gave an angry sniff and knuckled her eyes to get rid of the tears which were forming. It wasn’t fair! She had done her very best, had tried to explain . . . and the boy had called her nasty names and refused to listen. She had put on her only halfway decent dress and had braided her hair into two thick plaits besides having a jolly good wash, yet he had called her a ginger-headed gypsy; oh, how she hated him! But the thought of having to admit her total failure brought the tears rushing back into her eyes and she realised she was in no state to approach the Browncoat boys again, even had she wished to do so, so she followed Steve to the bench and sat down beside him. Without further preamble she told her story, including the fact that the letter over which she, Missie and Steve had taken such pains had been thrown down the grid before she had a chance to rescue it.
She half expected Steve to say she should not have offered the letter until she was certain that the boy she had accosted really was Gerald, but instead he fished out of his pocket an extremely dirty piece of rag, pressed it into her hand and told her to mop up her tears. ‘It weren’t your fault; we should have remembered that uniform kind of changes people,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Of course we’ll have to rewrite the letter – or get Missie to do so, rather – but at least it will be a case of repeating what the first letter said which will be much easier than writing a new one. And next time it might be best to go straight up to the playing fields and ask someone, quietly, to point out the Grimshaws, then wait until they’ve been bowled out or wharrever and ask for a quiet word. So cheer up, kid; we’re all but home an’ dry.’
Miranda gave a watery sniff. ‘So it probably wasn’t even a Grimshaw who chucked our letter down the drain,’ she said. ‘I’m an idiot, I am! What’s that thing about rushing in where angels fear to tread? That’s me, that is. But I’ll make up for it next week, I promise.’
Steve cleared his throat and Miranda saw that he looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Look, queen, you’ve been great, much braver than what I was, but next week I think I’d do better by meself. The teachers have got it into their heads that the boys shouldn’t talk to girls . . . well, you told me that the boy you spoke to said he’d be in trouble if someone saw him with a girl. So I honestly think I’d stand a better chance if I came alone.’
Miranda sighed. She had not enjoyed her encounter with the snooty Browncoat boy, who had not only insulted her – ginger-headed gypsy indeed – but made her feel small. Yet even so she did not want to be left out of the adventure, if adventure it could be called. But Steve was looking at her anxiously, probably guessing how she felt, and waiting for her reaction, so Miranda forced a smile. ‘I know you’re right, so next Saturday I’ll spend the day with Missie,’ she said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. ‘I do hope we can get her away before winter comes, though.’
Steve looked doubtful. ‘It don’t do to rush things,’ he said, pulling her to her feet. ‘You’re a grand girl, you are, so let’s go down to the beach and have a paddle before setting off for home.’
I never expected it to be easy, but I never thought it would be this perishin’ difficult, Steve said to himself as he approached the playing fields a week later. Missie had been bitterly disappointed that they had not managed to contact one of the Grimshaw boys on their first attempt, but when Steve had explained his plan she had agreed that it was a good one. Even so, she had been reluctant to write out the letter again. She thought it would be very much easier for Steve to persuade Julian and Gerald to come to Jamaica House so that they could see for themselves that she really was in Liverpool. Steve and Miranda, however, had explained that the boys were strictly guarded and must be convinced that Missie really needed their help before they would even begin to consider venturing so far from school.
Now, Steve knew that he was unlikely to be mistaken for a Browncoat boy as they marched through the streets towards their destination, but he thought it would be easier to mingle once they were in their sports gear. He had persuaded his mother to give him a short haircut, borrowed – without his brother’s knowledge – Joe’s Sunday shirt, and was wearing his most respectable kecks.
Once they reached the playing fields, there was a good deal of milling around and shouting and at one point Steve rather feared he might be picked for one side or the other, but they managed to get two teams together, with half a dozen boys left disconsolately on the sidelines, and it was one of these whom Steve approached. He was a short, red-faced, cheery-looking boy, and responded at once to Steve’s friendly overture. ‘Gerald Grimshaw is second row forward . . .’ He pointed. ‘He’s in the upper fifth. His brother’s in the upper sixth.’
‘Which one is he?’ Steve said quickly. ‘I’d like a word with both of ’em, but I dunno if that’s possible.’
The cheery one grinned. ‘I can see you don’t know much about the Browncoats,’ he observed. ‘We have the playing fields by years; today is upper and lower fifth, next Saturday will be upper and lower fourth, and so on. The mighty men of the sixth play midweek; they get much more freedom than the rest of us, so you might find it easier to have a word with Julian than with Gerald.’
‘But I don’t know him from Adam. I shan’t be able to recognise him even if I could get up here during the week, which is real difficult,’ Steve said miserably. He suddenly thought of the letter, and fished the folded sheet out of his pocket. ‘Look, if you could get this to Gerald, he could show it to Julian and they could decide what’s best to do.’
The boy took the sheet of paper rather gingerly. ‘I reckon I’ll have to read it,’ he said apologetically. ‘For all I know you might be telling him to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or to aim a rocket straight through the windows of the headmaster’s study.’ He laughed but raised his brows. ‘But you don’t know me from Adam either – I’m Henry Prothero, Hal to my pals. So – shall I read it, or shall I give it back to you so you can give it to Gerald yourself?’
Steve did not even hesitate. ‘Read it!’ he commanded. ‘And if you can see any reason for not handing it to Gerald, you tell me here and now. It’s a rather complicated story, though, and if you agree to pass on the letter I’ll explain anything you don’t understand.’ The two boys had been standing on the sidelines, watching the game in progress, but now Hal jerked his head towards a clump of trees and bushes at the perimeter of the field.
‘Let’s go over there where we’re less likely to be spotted,’ he said. ‘After the first half, those who didn’t play to begin with have to swap with someone who’s had a game already. I hate rugger – I hate most sports, actually – and Mr Elliot, the games master, knows it, so I’ll be first substitute if he catches my eye.’
Steve followed his new friend into cover and watched with some interest as Hal spread out the sheet and began to read. Watching his face, Steve saw perplexity but no trace of disapproval, and when Hal looked up and grinned at him he raised his brows. ‘Well? Do you feel you can pass it on to Gerald? Is there anything in it which worries you?’
Hal shook his head, then began to read the letter aloud.
‘Dear Julian and Gerald, I trust you have not forgotten your old friend Missie. I write because I am in Liverpool, having arrived here without money or papers and thus with no means of returning to the island we all love. I know your parents would help me if they knew of my plight, but they are far away and you are near.
I am writing this letter to ask for your help and have entrusted it to my friend Steve. He and his friend have helped me write this letter and supported me, but it is to you I turn for the means to buy a passage back to the West Indies. I am living quietly but long to see you both and explain how I came to be here.
You know I would not ask for your help except in great need and I pray to God you have not forgotten your old nurse.’
‘Well, what more explanation do you need?’ Steve said rather impatiently, as Hal came to the end. ‘She’s not a young woman – Missie, I mean – and she needs their help to get home.’
‘Yes, but how did she end up in Liverpool? Did she come to England to look for work?’
Steve took a deep breath, trying to sort out how best to explain, then decided that it was unnecessary. Instead, he smiled and nodded. ‘That’s it. But her new employers were unscrupulous and mean. When she told them she wanted to leave they confiscated her papers and wouldn’t pay her the money they owed her. So my friend and I helped. But we don’t have the money to get her a return passage to the Indies . . .’
He stopped speaking as Hal nodded understandingly. ‘Ah yes, I see. She’ll want papers, a passport and so on, which you obviously cannot provide. But I expect the Grimshaws’ uncle could help there. He’s an old Browncoats boy and I know he’s a lawyer.’ As he spoke he was refolding the letter and pushing it into his trouser pocket. ‘I say, that poor woman! I’m sure the Grims will be glad to help. Gerry’s a wizard fellow and Julian’s okay, though he’s the quiet studious type, unlike his brother. But how to get you together I really don’t know, because apart from coming to and from the playing fields we can’t officially leave the school premises, except for some definite reason.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, a trip to the dentist, a Scout meeting, or sometimes a special exeat to see a relative of whom the school authorities approve. Tell you what, when Mr Elliot blows the whistle I’ll go straight across to Gerry, pass the letter over and tell him you’re in the bushes. Maybe you can arrange something then.’
Steve was so delighted that he could have hugged the other boy but contented himself with uttering profuse thanks. ‘You’re brilliant, you are; I never thought I’d meet someone so willing to help,’ he said. ‘When it’s all over and Missie has been seen off safely back to her island, then I’ll tell you the whole story. I wish I could do something to repay you in the meantime, though.’
‘I wish I could help you more,’ Hal said, his rosy face split by a wide grin. ‘Wish I had a relative in Liverpool and could go a-visiting a couple of times a term. I s’pose you couldn’t arrange that?’
Steve pulled a face. ‘I wish I could,’ he said sincerely, ‘but though my mam’s a grand woman, I doubt your teachers would think her respectable enough to entertain a Browncoats boy. Still, I’ll see what I can do.’
Just as they emerged from the bushes the whistle blew and Mr Elliot began charging about and shouting. Hal made his way straight to Gerald Grimshaw and gripped his arm. Steve did not actually see the folded paper change hands, but guessed that it had done so when Gerald’s eyes turned in his direction and he began to nod. He walked off the pitch, exchanging remarks with the other lads, and presently he joined Steve and shot out a hand. Steve shook it, taking a good look at his new companion. Gerald Grimshaw was a hefty young man who looked more than his fifteen years. He had short curly hair which stood up all over his head, broad cheekbones and twinkling brown eyes, a thick neck and broad shoulders. He grinned, then fished the letter out of his pocket. ‘Are you certain sure that the woman you’ve been helping is really our Missie? Melissa Grundy? Only when we were at Uncle Vernon’s for the Easter vac he told us that Missie had disappeared in a bad thunderstorm on her way to help at the village school. The locals said she must have gone into the sea for some reason and been taken by sharks – it does happen, especially during a storm when they have what we call a feeding frenzy – but she was certainly no longer on the island. Her house was given to someone else, and it did seem as though something like a shark attack must have been the reason for her disappearance, because nothing was missing, not so much as a pair of shoes or a teapot. And there was no – no body.’
Steve pulled a face. ‘She was afraid people would think that,’ he said ruefully. ‘But you’d better read the letter first and then I’ll fill you in on what we felt was too complicated to try to put into writing.’
‘Right,’ Gerald said unfolding the paper. ‘How did you come to know Hal, by the way? He’s a decent chap, one of the best, but he comes from somewhere north of the border and doesn’t have any friends outside school so far as I know.’
‘Luck,’ Steve said. ‘Read the perishin’ letter, or your teacher will blow the whistle and our chance to arrange another meeting will be gone. And Missie is very much alive, as you’ll see.’
Gerald scanned the page quickly, whilst a slow smile spread across his face. ‘That’s the best news I’ve ever had, and it’ll be the same for Julian,’ he said happily. ‘But look here, lad, it’s been a long while since Missie disappeared. How the devil did she get to Liverpool? She don’t know a soul here apart from us. Can you explain a bit more?’
‘Well, I could, but I think it might be better coming from Missie herself,’ Steve said rather apologetically. ‘But Hal mentioned that you had a relative in the legal profession. I wonder why Missie didn’t think of him.’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t,’ Gerald said at once. ‘She never knew him. He’s a great gun. If anyone can sort out papers, passports and so on it’s our uncle, and I’m sure he’ll do it as quick as a flash when we explain that it’s for Missie. They never met, but he knows all about her, of course. And now you’d best explain to me what she’s doing in Liverpool.’
Steve hesitated. The more he thought about Missie’s capture and slavery aboard the Pride of the Sea the less likely it seemed. He was sure that if he told the tale he would not be believed, or at any rate a listener would take it with a grain of salt, as the saying went. They had all agreed on this, even Missie, and tempting though it was to tell all to this cheerful and friendly young man, Steve decided he had better stick to their original plan. ‘Look, I promised Missie she should tell her own story,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m here to arrange a meeting, if that’s possible. For reasons she’ll explain when you see her, she will only leave her refuge after dark.’
Gerald grinned. ‘Yes, Missie always was a snappy dresser. She loved brilliant colours and exotic materials,’ he said reminiscently. ‘I suppose she would stand out like a parrot amidst sparrows in Liverpool, where people tend to wear black or dark brown.’
Steve sighed. This was going to be even more difficult than he had supposed. ‘No, it’s not like that at all. Missie wears the only clothing available to her, which is black and pretty much in rags. She wouldn’t stand out at all in the area near the docks, but . . . oh dear, when you meet her you’ll see for yourself. And honestly, it should be as soon as possible. My pal and I worry all the time that someone will start to take an interest in Jamaica House and Missie will find herself . . .’
‘Jamaica House? Our family used to run a business of some description, in Liverpool, and I think their headquarters were called Jamaica House – in fact I’m sure of it. So that’s where Missie is holed up, is it? I’ve never seen it myself, the family haven’t been involved in that particular trade for generations, but from what I’ve heard the house is little better than a ruin. Look, I don’t know the way there but I do agree with you that we must meet Missie, and the sooner the better. Julian is a prefect, so though he would do everything in his power to help he won’t want to break any rules.’
‘In that case it might be best if you came to Jamaica House on your own, preferably after it’s begun to get dark,’ Steve said. ‘Fortunately your brown blazers and grey kecks can look pretty anonymous, so if you take your cap off and get hold of a dark-coloured muffler you’re unlikely to be spotted as a Browncoat boy. I guess you think I ought to bring Missie to you, but it would be really difficult. I’ll tell you what bus to catch and which stop to get off at, and I’ll meet you there and take you straight to Jamaica House. But can you get away? Without being caught, I mean.’
Gerald thought the matter over. ‘If Hal covers for me after the supper bell – we’re in the same dorm – I can be with you by say half past eight in the evening. Then I can spend an hour or so with Missie and still get back to the dorm before anyone has checked that it’s me curled up under the covers and not my pillow.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll meet all the buses from Crosby between eight and nine o’clock. If you’re not on any of them, we’ll have to think again,’ Steve said. ‘Now, do you need to know anything else? Missie felt that the letter she wrote might not be enough to convince you that we weren’t playing what you might call an under-game, though why she would want to entice a couple of bleedin’ Browncoats into a ruined house is more than I can tell you.’
He expected his companion to laugh scoffingly, but Gerald did not do so. ‘Extortion,’ he said briefly, then grinned. ‘But you don’t look the type to drag me off, chuck me into a cellar and demand a ransom from parents a thousand miles away. So you can tell Missie that one of us, at least, will be with her . . . what day did we say?’
Steve laughed. So that was what ‘extortion’ meant! ‘We didn’t, but what about Monday? Or would tomorrow be better for you?’
They were still discussing the details of their plan when Mr Elliot’s whistle shrilled and the boys, both players and spectators, began to amble back towards the wooden building. Gerald started to follow them, turning at the last minute to say: ‘Monday evening, eight to nine. Cheerio for now.’
Steve did not hang about until the boys were back in uniform once more, but set off immediately towards the nearest bus stop. He was elated with the success of his plan, and looking forward to Monday evening. He and Miranda had grown fond of Missie, but Steve realised more than ever now that she was a real responsibility. He worried that someone would spot her when she went down to the docks to pick up any food she could find. He worried she would be seen leaving or entering the walled garden, or that one of the factory workers might follow her into her retreat, or perhaps inform the scuffers that a vagrant had taken up residence in the old house. No, though he and Miranda would miss her, the happiest outcome of their strange friendship must be that Missie should return to the West Indies and the home she loved.
As he climbed aboard the bus which would take him into the city centre, Steve remembered Timmy. He could not go with Missie when she left, nor could he stay at Jamaica House by himself. He could imagine the screams of outrage from her aunt if Miranda tried to introduce a dog into Number Six, and whilst his own mother and father were both easy-going and generous, they would say that they needed every penny they earned to feed and clothe their own family, and could not afford the luxury of a dog. But now that he was regularly fed, groomed and exercised, Timmy was an attractive little chap. I dare say Mum and Dad would take to him if I promised to pay for all his food out of the money I earn doing odd jobs, Steve told himself, moving down towards the back of the vehicle as it slowed at his stop. He jumped down and was delighted as well as surprised to find Miranda, hands in pockets, strolling idly up and down the pavement, with Timmy close at her heels. She grinned at him as he joined her.
‘Fancy meeting you!’ she said gaily. ‘I guess it were you who got lucky this time, judging by your grin.’ She drew him out of the hurrying crowd. ‘Here, Timmy! Don’t you go wandering off; the butcher gave me a lovely marrowbone for you, so just you stick close to your pals, and you shall have it, as soon as we reach home.’
Back at the old house, Missie was waiting anxiously for them, knowing that Steve had believed he would meet the Grimshaws today. Despite the chill in the air she was sitting on the curved stone bench in the garden, and jumped to her feet eagerly, her big liquid eyes full of hope. ‘Did you meet my young gentlemen?’ she asked. ‘Oh, but I can see you did. Tell me! I expect you told Miss Miranda already; it good news, it written on your face.’
By the time Steve had finished his story it was getting dark and Missie led the way down the garden and into the kitchen. This was now a much cosier and pleasanter room altogether, for a small paraffin stove stood in the hearth and the three of them had brought comfortable cane chairs through from the rest of the house. Missie and Miranda had ransacked drawers, chests and cupboards, and the result was cushions, rugs, and old-fashioned cloaks, which they had hung over the shutters at the windows. There was also food; Missie had told them she had found a bakery whose workers at the end of the day threw out cakes and loaves which they felt were no longer saleable, so now the three of them settled down to eat and chat and to discuss the future. Miranda enjoyed the cakes, despite a lurking fear that Missie had probably stolen them. Well, so what? Everyone has to live, and a baker wouldn’t go hungry because of the loss of a few sticky buns, a small loaf and some cake, whereas Missie must eat to live.
‘So, Gerald is coming here on Monday to meet you, just to make sure that the letter isn’t a cunning forgery,’ Steve said. ‘Then nothing much will happen until next Saturday, when Gerald and Julian get this exeat thing and go off to their uncle’s house to tell him the story.’ He turned to Missie. ‘Would you go with them? I really think you should. After all, you’ll be heading away from the docks, not towards them, and the chances of anyone recognising you are pretty slight. I know the village where the Grimshaws’ Uncle Vernon lives; it’s very quiet and rural, not at all the sort of place wandering seamen want to visit.’ Missie looked doubtful but Steve, catching Miranda’s eye, gave an encouraging smile. ‘I think we must somehow provide Missie with more suitable clothing than the things she’s wearing at present before she meets Mr Grimshaw,’ he said tactfully. ‘I know dark clothing is fine for raiding the docks but it really won’t do for visiting Holmwood.’ He turned to Missie. ‘I’m afraid you’d be far too conspicuous.’
Miranda had not thought of it before, but now she nodded vigorously. ‘Steve’s right, Missie. But even if we go to Paddy’s Market, we don’t have the sort of money to buy a decent dress. Oh, if only we’d thought of it earlier Steve could have arranged to borrow some cash from Gerald. I suppose we could ask your mam if she could borrow us a skirt and blouse, Steve, but . . .’
But Steve was grinning, flapping a hand at her. ‘I’ve a better idea. I’ve heard two of the lads talking about the big rubbish skips at the back of Paddy’s Market. It’s a sort of yard at the corner of Maddox Street and Bevington Hill. The stallholders chuck anything they think they won’t be able to sell into the bins on a Saturday night and on Monday morning the dustcarts collect them and carry them away. But the lads say some of the stuff is quite decent. They go there Sunday nights and either cram a sack with rags to sell to the rag and bone man – Packinham’s or King’s – or pick out the best stuff and sell it cheap to anyone willing to buy. If Miranda and meself nip down there tomorrow night with a couple of sacks, we can either help ourselves to anything we think will fit you, Missie, or we can fill the sacks and sell the stuff next day, like the fellers do, and by a dress wi’ the gelt.’
‘I’m surprised no one’s twigged what’s going on,’ Miranda said, giggling. ‘If old Kingy only knew, he’d cut out the middle man and go straight to the rubbish bins himself. He’s far too mean to want to part with his money needlessly.’
Steve laughed too. ‘You’re right there. The fellers were sayin’ someone were bound to find out soon, but I reckon if you and me go as soon as it gets dark tomorrow night, Miranda, we’ll clean up.’
Missie beamed from face to face. ‘Shall I come too?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I know where Paddy’s Market is, on Scotland Road. I been there often.’
Both Miranda and Steve shook their heads firmly, however. ‘No, Missie. You’ll have to trust us to pick something respectable,’ Steve said firmly. He gestured to Miranda. ‘Time we were off. With a bit of luck your aunt and Beth will be in bed by the time you get home, and won’t start asking questions.’
They said their farewells and made their way out to the main road to catch a tram back to Jamaica Close. As Miranda had expected, Number Six was in darkness, so she said goodbye to Steve and crept quietly to her bed.
Next day, in order to lull any suspicions that her aunt might be harbouring, she helped prepare and cook Sunday dinner and spent the rest of the day cleaning the house. Aunt Vi, coming in through the back door and narrowly avoiding the bucket of water with which Miranda was scrubbing the kitchen floor, swore loudly and would have given her a cuff, except that Miranda ducked and raised her brush threateningly. Aunt Vi took evasive action, grumbling as she did so. ‘What ails you, you miserable little bugger? If you want to clean the place up you should do it on a Saturday. I’m in me best coat and shoes; if they’ve got splashed I’ll know who to blame.’
Miranda finished the floor with a final swirl of her cloth and stood up. ‘I’m always busy on a Saturday, earning meself a few pence, so if you want floors scrubbed and cooking done it’s got to be on Sunday,’ she said firmly. She glanced at the clock above the mantel, which was showing five o’ clock. ‘I’m off now, Aunt Vi. I won’t bother to stay for tea.’
Vi had been heading across the kitchen, clearly intending to go to her room and change out of her decent Sunday clothing, but at her niece’s words she stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re going nowhere, not unless you tell me what you’re up to . . .’ she began, but Miranda was already out of the back door and hurrying across the yard. Heading for Steve’s house, she felt quite excited. If they could acquire a decent skirt and some sort of blouse, Missie would be able to meet Mr Grimshaw, and then it was just a matter of time before her troubles would surely be over.